FATHER AND SON
To have created life — yes, that I
have done —
and to have buried the man
who once called me his son.
To
have lived in fear,
to have watched mankind split atoms,
to have sailed the great Mississippi
and nearly drowned in seven fathoms.
To
have left my flesh
and seen apparitions
dance upon a shrine,
and to have known of bloated bodies
drifting down the Rhine.
To
have kissed girls in distant lands,
and some I claimed to love,
yet left behind
with splintered hearts
and blood upon their hands.
To
have walked with Plato in restless thought,
to have trod on teak that drifted free
across the silent Caspian Sea;
to have touched the bark of ancient trees
and watched their living breath
fall to the axe for me.
To
have flown in rusting, groaning wings
across a wounded sky,
and turned green pastures
into bowls of dust
where better things should lie.
To
have lied beside my faithful wife,
betrayed her marriage bed,
and faced the vengeance of the man
who bore me my first — now dead.
For
all of this, and so much more,
I bow my head in shame.
For I never hugged my father
when I still had time to try,
and I never held my own son’s hand
before we said goodbye.
No comments:
Post a Comment